Captain Cunningham started visibly at sight of us. If he’d been expecting anyone, it wasn’t us. My heart sped up a little as I rehearsed my opening lines of gratitude.

“Good afternoon, Captain!” Roger called, smiling. “I’ve brought my mother-in-law, Mrs. Fraser, to call on Mrs. Cunningham.”

The captain’s mouth opened slightly as his gaze shifted to me. He didn’t have a poker face, and I could see him trying to reconcile whatever his mother had been saying about me with my appearance—which was as respectable as I could make it.

“I—she—” he began. Roger had taken my arm and was ushering me quickly up the path, saying something cordial about the weather, but the captain wasn’t attending.

“I mean … good afternoon, mum.” He gave me a jerky bob of the head as I came to a stop and curtsied in front of him.

“I am afraid my mother’s not in,” he said, eyeing me warily. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, has she gone visiting?” I asked. “I’m so sorry; I wanted to thank her for her gift. And I’d brought a few things for her …” I gave Roger a sideways glance that said, Now what?

“No, she’s just gone foraging by the creek,” the captain said, with a vague wave of the hand toward the woods. “She, um …”

“Oh, in that case,” I said hastily, “I’ll just go and see if I can find her. Why don’t you and the captain have a nice visit, Roger, while I look round for her?”

Before he could say anything else, I picked up my skirts, stepped neatly over the line of white stones, and made for the woods, leaving Roger to his own devices.

“AH … PLEASE COME in.” Cunningham yielded to circumstance with some grace, opening the door wide and beckoning Roger inside.

“Thank you, sir.” The cabin was as orderly as it had been on his first visit, but it smelled different. He could swear the ghost of coffee hung invitingly in the air. My God, it is coffee …

“Do sit down, Mr. MacKenzie.”

Cunningham had recovered his composure, though he was still giving Roger sidelong glances. Roger had composed a few opening remarks, but those had been designed to deflect Mrs. Cunningham until Claire could get her oar in. Best just get it out, before either of them comes back …

“I recently had an interesting conversation with my cousin-by-marriage, Rachel Murray,” he said. Cunningham, who had been bending to get a coffeepot that was keeping warm in the hearth, shot up like a jack-in-the-box, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the chimney breast, and turned round.

“What?”

“Mrs. Ian Murray,” Roger said. “Young Quaker woman? Tallish, dark, very pretty? Baby with a loud voice?”

The captain’s face took on a somewhat flushed, congested appearance.